


Build Love, Build God, Build Provinces

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BDSM Scene, Caretaking, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, First Aid, Missing Scene, Movie: Casino Royale (2006), Names, Older Woman/Younger Man, Other, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Subdrop, Touch-Starved, not an accident that the narration switches from "james" to "bond"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22856308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: After the fight at the airport, Bond finds his footing again, metaphorically speaking.
Relationships: James Bond/M
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Build Love, Build God, Build Provinces

M was on the phone when James walked into her office. He stopped in the doorway, observing her.

She was resplendent, in that silver-fox way of hers. Her pantsuit was deep midnight blue, with an ivory shirt beneath. Clashing with her understated ensemble were the hefty pearls around her throat. 

Granted, at least one of them was an explosive, and another was cyanine. M was never unprepared.

“Are you sure there’s no one—” M was saying.

James cleared his throat.

M stopped, turned around, and sighed. “Never mind.” She hung up the phone. “Bond. You look like hell.”

James nodded.

“You got yourself out, then. I was thinking I was going to have to post bail.”

Still holding M’s gaze, James shook his head. He wet his lips, tasted blood.

M breathed in. She unclasped her necklace, curling it into a spiral and setting it on top of her laptop. She shed her jacket, slung it over the back of her chair, and walked over to James. 

Beneath the skirt of M’s pantsuit, she wore heavy black braces on each knee. James assumed that was why she was out of the field. It wasn’t her age—James had seen her kill. 

“On your knees, Bond,” she murmured.

Bond knelt. 

“Let me take a look at you.” M laid her hands on either side of Bond’s face. She thumbed blood from under his eye, clicking her tongue. “Any major damage?”

Bond shook his head. “No.”

“No what?” M prompted.

“No major damage, sir,” Bond ducked his head away from her hands when she pressed the pad of her thumb into a cut. “Bruises. My face—”

M tilted Bond’s chin back up. “Hush now, Bond. I’ll take care of your face.”

With that, she stepped away. She fetched a bulky First Aid kit from beneath her desk and opened it up.

She tore the package of the antiseptic wipe with her teeth. Bond didn’t flinch when she ran it over his face, wiping away the blood.

Two of the cuts, one under his eye and one across his forehead, needed closing. She told him so, as she pressed the ZipStitches to his skin and pulled them shut. 

The rest, she covered with butterfly bandages, or left alone. By the time she was finished, Bond had shut his eyes, listing against her.

“Tired?” M asked, running her thumb beneath Bond’s eye.

He didn’t reply. Her touch soothed him, letting him drift beyond the pain.

“Bond?”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

M patted his cheek. “There you are. Are you tired, Bond?”

It took a moment to parse the question. He floated, beyond the scope of such a thing as tiredness.

“Bond.” 

“Yes,” he replied, unsteadily. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you want to sleep here?”

He didn’t want to sleep. He just wanted her to keep touching him. He wanted her hands on his face, chasing the pain away.

“You need to rest,” she told him.

Bond shook his head. Something aching rose in his throat. “No, I—”

M tapped him on the cheek.

“Sir,” Bond tried. His voice fell apart in his mouth.

M bent her head, kissing his forehead. “Shh, shh, Bond. We can compromise.”

“May I…” Bond shut his eyes. “I’ll sleep. If you keep your hand…” he leaned into her touch.

M ran a hand through his hair. “Come sit next to my chair,” she ordered, quietly. “I’ll keep my hand on you.”

Bond crawled, on hands and knees, after her. She sat down, and he sat on the floor beside her chair, leaning his head against her thigh.

As promised, M rested her hand on the back of Bond’s neck, fingers curled into the hair at his nape.

“Good,” he heard her say, as he drifted off. “Good boy, Bond.”


End file.
